


on paper

by okteivia (naquaduh)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, artist!Clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 02:37:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3512069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naquaduh/pseuds/okteivia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke likes to draw, Bellamy likes to stick his nose in where he shouldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on paper

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by this post: http://clarkeslight.tumblr.com/post/112955614772

 

‘Hey? O? Are you here?’ Clarke called out tentatively, stepping into the apartment.

No response.

She sighed and closed the door, kicking off her shoes as she did so. Clarke and Octavia had been sharing an apartment for three years now, and while they were both fairly tidy, neither of them really bothered to keep their shoes in order.

Classes had been even more strenuous than usual, given that exams were coming up, and Clarke was about ready to collapse on the couch, watch some crappy reality show and stay there for about a hundred years.

Then, just as she came into the living area, she saw the familiar mop of brown curls, peeking out over a book large enough to warrant use from both his hands. Clarke stopped.

‘Oh. Hey.’

Bellamy only grunted in response. Her eyes were drawn to his hands – hands which she definitely _had not_ had multiple fantasies about.

‘I didn’t realise anyone was her– what’s that?’ Her… _appreciation_ of Bellamy Blake’s hands brought her eyes to the book in his hands. Specifically, the very familiar _sketchbook_ in his hands.

‘What’s what?’ he asked. His face was still buried in the book and he was trying to sound nonchalant, but she could hear his voice was tight. She wanted to scream in embarrassment; instead, she decided to try and adopt his approach.

‘The sketchbook in your hands.’

‘Then why are you asking what it is?’ he quipped.

‘Bellamy. Why do you have _my_ sketchbook?’ Clarke tried again.

‘Oh? So it’s yours is it, Princess?’

‘Obviously.’

‘Well, you’re very talented,’ he replied, finally looking up at her, a stupid smirk on his face. She wanted to either hit him or jump him. No, Clarke. No.

‘Thank you. How did you get it?’

‘You left it on the couch. You should be more aware.’

‘Fine.’ Clarke held out a hand, waiting for him to hand it over.

Bellamy glanced down at her hand, got up from his place on the couch, and, his grin still firmly in place, made to give it back. Only to snatch the book back at the last second.

She glared at him, he just kept smiling. Damn him.

‘You know,’ he told her, ‘I think _this_ one is my favourite.’ He began flicking through the _many_ pages to find what he was looking for.

There was a great number of bad pictures, of compromising and semi-to-explicit drawings that she’d drawn up only from her imagination. She was dreading whatever he was going to show her, the numerous things he could start from even one small picture.

When he finally found it, he turned the book around to show her.

It was both better and worse than she’d expected.

It was just a simple pencil sketch, nothing too fancy, and you couldn’t even see the subject’s face. But both she and Bellamy knew exactly who it was. With the rest of the book to go by, it was a pretty safe bet to say that the subject was none other than her best friend and roommate’s brother, Bellamy Blake.

The sketch was from behind; carefully following the way the t-shirt hung on his back, the way his curls fell at his neck, the defined line of his slanted shoulders.

Tearing her eyes from the paper, she took in his face, equal parts amused and apprehensive.

‘So… Princess,’ Bellamy began, moving closer to her. ‘Why do you have a sketchbook dedicated to me?’

‘You– you’re good to draw.’

‘Good to draw?’ She saw his eyebrows knit, telling her that wasn’t the response he expected.

‘Yes. I mean, come on, Bellamy, you’re like objectively beautiful. Any artist would want to draw you.’

The unease left his face at that. Great. ‘Oh?’

‘Yes,’ Clarke said, reaching out to grab the book from his hands. His likewise beautiful hands. She was itching to draw him again. Shit.

‘You know, if I had your talent…’ he trailed off, drawing her attention away from her artistic – yes _artistic_ – impulses for a moment.

‘If you had my talent?’ she supplied.

‘Well, there’d be more than one of these.’ He was coming even further into her personal space. She didn’t mind. At all.

‘What?’

He puts his hands on her waist.

‘Well, you’re just objectively beautiful,’ Bellamy told her, before he pulled her to him, his lips crashing over hers.

The sketchbook drops from her hand and she leans up to twist it in his hair, the other soon joining it. One of his come up to frame her face and when they have to pull away, his thumb brushes over her cheek.

‘Now,’ Clarke whispers playfully, pressing her forehead against his. ‘Why would you just assume I wanted to kiss you?’

‘Your art says a lot.’


End file.
